a different point of view (see things my way)
by shineyma
Summary: Responses to the POV-shift meme I held on my tumblr. Includes alternate points-of-view for chapters 4, 6, 9, and 25 of my prompt collection; chapter fifteen of "sometimes (i find it hard to believe);" and "i'm not falling in love (i'm just falling to pieces)."
1. Grant: i'm not falling in love (i'm)

A/N: First of all, no one will be shocked to hear that I still owe review responses, because I am the worst. I'm sorry! I'm working on them!

Second, all of the stories contained within are responses to prompts I received for a meme I did on my tumblr, in which I invited people to send me the title of one of my fics, and I would write a snippet of it from another character's POV. I still have several unanswered prompts, so this collection might get expanded, but these are the ones I've done so far.

Third, title comes from "Gonna Change the World" by S Club 7, a song which has absolutely nothing to do with these fics. I just got the two lines stuck in my head, and they particularly fit the point of the collection, so-*shrugs*.

I think that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Prompt for this chapter: anonymous said: "Ward in i'm not falling in love (i'm just falling to pieces), please? (Going with the assumption he's real, that is.)"

* * *

Grant is well aware that he's not a good man.

No good man could make a decent specialist, and Grant is so much more than _decent_. He's one of the best, with all that it implies, and the mix of pride and shame he carries for the work he's done is something only another specialist could understand.

He's felt his fair share of guilt. He's suffered the flashbacks and the nightmares that are part and parcel of specialist work. There have been days when he's thought he would never get the smell of death out of his nose, where he's felt like everything he's ever done has stained his hands for all the world to see.

For the blood he's spilled, the lives he's taken, the horrible deeds he's committed in the name of maintaining his various covers…he carries that guilt constantly, and it only builds with each mission he completes. After eight years? It's a lot of guilt.

And all of it combined can't compare to what he feels looking at Jemma right now.

She's dwarfed by the shirt she's wearing, which is definitely one of his. Usually the sight of her in his clothes is a turn-on (he is nothing if not a possessive man) but it's hard to find any satisfaction in it right now. It makes her look that much smaller, and she really doesn't need the help.

Jemma has always been small—petite, as she's often insisted—but only deceptively so. She's brilliance and sunshine wrapped around a core of pure steel, and has been since the moment he met her. She's stubborn and strong and unbending, tough enough to bear not only her own burdens but his as well. He learned long ago to see past her small (tiny, he used to tease her) stature and see the strength beneath.

But not anymore. Between the weight she's lost (far too much—has she eaten at all in the last month?) and the look on her face, it's hard to think of her as anything but delicate. Fragile. Like a harsh word or a stiff breeze might shatter her.

He did this to her.

She backs away from him and cries and insists that he isn't real, and even as he calmly tries to convince her otherwise—even as he tries to prove, through touch and sight and sound, that he really is standing in front of her—he's slowly drowning in guilt. She flinches when he touches her, and shame claws at him with burning fingers.

He never should have agreed to the deception.

He finds himself trying to explain, in between attempts to convince her that she isn't hallucinating. It isn't the time for it—not when Jemma so clearly thinks she's in the midst of a mental break—but he can't help himself. He needs her to know, to understand, that he didn't do this on purpose.

The lie wasn't meant to last anywhere near this long. It was only supposed to be for a few days—not even long enough for them to hold a funeral. He knew that she would mourn—that she would _suffer_—but it wasn't supposed to be this bad. He figured she would spend a day or two crying on Fitz's shoulder, and then the truth would come out and he would spend the next decade or so making it up to her.

Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that it would stretch out to more than a month. If he'd known—if he'd had any idea—he never would have agreed.

Letting the target think Grant was dead was the best way to bring him out of hiding, he knows. They spent weeks debating it, drawing up and discarding strategy after strategy after strategy, and the one where he faked his death was the _only_ one (out of literal dozens) that wasn't likely to cause collateral damage. All of their other plans would have resulted in heavy civilian casualties.

But he would rather watch a hundred innocent people die than see this look on Jemma's face.

By the time they realized that the mission would take more than a few days—that the target (a man who doesn't deserve the courtesy of a name; it's not often that Grant uses words like _evil_ in earnest, but it's the only one that really applies) was paranoid enough to continue his precautions past the point of the death of the only person he knew was after him—it was too late to back out. Revealing that his death had been faked would only have justified the target's paranoia and driven him further into hiding.

He told himself that Jemma would be all right. He told himself with Fitz there to take care of her, and Barton and Romanoff—pulled off the mission to lend credence to the lie—to protect her, she would make it through okay.

He was fooling himself, of course, but it wasn't until he successfully completed the op—until he returned to the Triskelion, only to be told that Jemma had taken her bereavement leave and disappeared—that he realized by how _much_.

He supposes he should consider himself lucky, that Jemma was too distraught to really hide. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth—the idea that he should be _grateful_ for his wife's suffering doesn't sit well. But it was easy to find her: once he ran a check on her passport and discovered that it had been used to enter France, he knew exactly where she was.

If she had made any attempt at hiding—if she had put that genius brain to work in covering her tracks—he might still be looking. And they've been apart for long enough already.

No. Not long enough. _Too long_.

She keeps repeating that he isn't real, and the guilt multiplies every time she says it. Between her tears and her obvious fear and the expression she's wearing—every single second of the last month is written in the lines of her face—he's being crushed under the weight of it.

He's angry at himself—furious, really—and it makes his voice sharper than he intends it to be when he asks her why it's so hard to believe that SHIELD would lie.

"Because you wouldn't do that to me," she says, and her words hit him like a punch to the throat. "You wouldn't leave me unless you had to."

Oh, look. More guilt.

She thinks so much better of him than he deserves. She always has, and he's always known it, but this…

He thinks maybe looking her in the eye would help—help her, that is; all it will do is bring him more pain, and fuck, does he deserve it—so he lifts her to sit on the counter.

(The first time he brought her here, for their anniversary four years ago, she sat in that exact spot while he made dinner and they talked about marriage. She was the one who brought it up, and the ring he had purchased months before was burning a hole in his pocket the whole time. Later that night, after he proposed—after she said yes, after they celebrated—she laughed and apologized for stepping on his moment. _Great minds think alike_, he said.

They spent part of their honeymoon here, and their anniversary the following year. They have so many good memories here, and the thought of her sleeping alone in the bed they've shared so often, crying and mourning him for _no reason_, causes him actual, physical pain.)

He apologizes some more, promises he's not dead, and then—because he honestly can't stop himself—because even when she's crying, even when she's pale and fragile and far, far too thin, she's still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen—because she spent the past month mourning him, but he spent it _missing_ her—he kisses her.

He means to keep it light, because he has no right to kiss her right now and he knows it. But she takes it further, and he doesn't deserve it (deserve _her_) but he goes along with it anyway, because he doesn't have the strength not to.

He wonders if the kiss—if the way she slides her hands up under his shirt and squeezes his sides with her knees—is a good sign. If maybe she's starting to believe him. When they finally draw apart, he has to ask.

"Do you believe me?"

"I don't know," she says, and his heart sinks. Not because she doesn't know—although, yeah, that's bad—but because of the tone she uses when she says it. Usually, an _I don't know_ from Jemma is a cheerful, excited thing. She loves it when she doesn't know things, because that leaves room for research—for discovery—and there are very few things she likes better than research.

She doesn't sound excited now, though. She sounds tired. She sounds _defeated_.

"But I'm willing to try," she finishes.

He can work with that, and tells her so. It will take time, he's sure. If she won't believe her own senses—if kissing him and being held by him isn't enough to convince her—he doesn't know that hearing confirmation from others will do the trick. Getting her to accept that he's really here is going to take time and patience, and he _knows_ that every second of it is going to _kill_ him, because she's not supposed to doubt herself. Not like this.

It's not just that he left her alone to mourn him for a month, although that was a fucking awful and cruel thing to do to her, for which he will definitely be apologizing on a regular basis. Her pointless, wasted tears are a mark against him and always will be, but they're not the worst of it.

He's shaken her faith in her own mind. He doesn't know that she'll ever be able to forgive him for it. He _does_ know that she shouldn't.

She asks if they can pretend, for a while, that everything is okay—that she really does believe he's here—and of course he agrees. Whatever she wants, whatever she needs, is hers. He's going to spend the rest of his life making this up to her.

So he returns her hug, bears the weight of his guilt, and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at his reflection in the window behind her. He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve _this_.

He never did.


	2. Grant: married in vegas

A/N: cinnamonfa said: "Can I request the Married in Vegas drabble from Ward's point of view? Pretty please!"

(chapter four of _a prompt response (is only polite)_)

* * *

Movement wakes him, and he's instantly on edge, ready to cross off whichever enemy is stupid enough to think that just because he's not awake he's not a threat.

Then he processes the situation—the soft skin pressed against his and the familiar soreness in particular muscles that suggests a night spent in pleasant exertion—and relaxes slightly. Not a threat, he thinks. One night stand.

As soon as he relaxes, his hangover makes itself known, and pain hits him right between the eyes in a pounding headache. He swears and rolls away from the woman (_woman_, fuck, he doesn't even remember meeting her, let alone her name; getting _that_ drunk was a fucking stupid move) to lie on his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Seriously. Ow.

He's had worse, obviously—much, much worse—but there's something about a hangover. It's a very distinct kind of pain that can turn even the hardiest of specialists into absolute children. He, personally, is generally more mature than that, but he's seen it happen.

He feels the bed shift as the woman climbs out of it, hears her walk across the room. Even through his pain he analyzes it, assessing her as a potential threat. It's possible (anything's possible), but somehow he doubts it. She doesn't sound like she's got training—her breathing and her footsteps and the sheer amount of _noise_ she makes as she does whatever she's doing all spell civilian.

That's something, at least. He didn't bring a trained assassin back to his room (is this his room? He hopes not; it's so much easier to make excuses and escape someone _else's_ room), just some random woman.

What was he _thinking_ last night?

He knows what he was thinking. He was thinking that the op he just finished was a complete clusterfuck and he wanted to forget it. He wanted to just _not think_—just for one night.

Well, mission accomplished.

Getting black-out drunk was fucking dangerous, on a number of levels, but at least all he did (or he _hopes_ all he did) was pick someone up. It could've been worse. It could have been much, much worse.

The bed shifts again as she gets back into it.

"Here," she says, nudging him. "These might help."

He pulls his hands away from his eyes to look at her. She's a gorgeous woman (wearing his shirt, and that's never been his thing, but _damn_), and she's currently offering him a bottle of water and two small, white pills.

"They're just aspirins," she says. "You can trust me; I'm a doctor."

She's also British. He doesn't have much of a thing for accents, either—being multilingual himself, they're really not that big a deal—but he likes hers. It's…warm.

He laughs, more at himself than at her, and sits up. The pills do look like aspirin, and after a brief internal debate—weighing the way she sits, the lack of the distinct calluses people in his line of work develop (although she does have some interesting ones) on her hands, and the current pain he's in against the possibility that she's an enemy who's just really good at playing harmless—he takes them.

He's peripherally aware of her fidgeting—she's obviously feeling uncomfortable with the situation—so he's not surprised when she breaks the silence to introduce herself. He _is_ surprised that she offers him her hand, because really, who does that? Who offers a _handshake_ after a one night stand?

He finds it weirdly endearing, though, and can't help but laugh. This woman—Jemma—is somehow simultaneously gorgeous and adorable, and he has to compliment himself on his taste. Getting black-out drunk was a horrible idea, but picking Jemma up definitely wasn't.

"Nice to meet you, Jemma," he says, and gamely shakes her hand. "I'm…"

The fake name dies on his lips, because just before he says it, his eyes catch on her left hand (currently resting against the mattress)—or, to be more exact, the _ring_ on her left hand.

That…looks worryingly new.

She frowns a little, eyes searching his face, and then follows his gaze. The way she goes abruptly pale does _not_ fill him with confidence. Neither does the realization that _he's_ wearing a ring, too.

The certificate he finds on the nightstand pretty much settles it. Apparently, he was not only drunk enough to forget picking up a gorgeous woman and bringing her back to her hotel (and it must be hers, because it's definitely not his)—he was also drunk enough to forget _marrying_ her.

Well. Fuck.

Jemma (Simmons, originally of Ashburton, England according to the certificate) is clearly panicking, and he can't exactly blame her, but hyperventilating won't help anything, so he talks her through it. She apologizes and asks what happens next, and he can't really think about that—because fuck, he was drunk enough to think that marrying a complete stranger was a good idea; he is _never_ going to live this down—so he suggests they get dressed.

It's kind of a shame. She really does look amazing in his shirt.

He's just pulling said shirt on when one of the cell phones on the other nightstand vibrates, and Jemma picks it up to check it.

"Grant," she says. "You've got—oh! You're with SHIELD!"

He freezes. SHIELD is so highly classified that the average civilian doesn't even know the name. If Jemma not only knows the name, but knows enough to deduce that he works for SHIELD after a quick glance at what must be _his_ phone…

She's nowhere near the random civilian he thought she was, and suddenly this whole _woke up married_ thing takes on an entirely new dimension.

Before he can get too far into considering his options, however, she speaks again.

"No, it's all right," she says, dropping his phone and holding her own out for inspection. "I'm a SHIELD agent, as well."

"Are you?" he asks skeptically.

That's stretching coincidence a little far for his taste. That two (well, three, counting Trip) SHIELD agents might be in Las Vegas at the same time, sure. That they might run into each other, less likely. That they might end up getting _married_, despite being complete strangers? Pretty far out of the realm of probability.

But her phone, when he takes it, is clearly part of SHIELD's communication network. It has the SECCOM display, same as his, and if it's a fake it's a very, very convincing one.

"I'm with SciOps," she tells him, as he stares at the display. "Level Four biochemist."

Now _that_ rings a bell, and he freezes, remembering the name on the marriage certificate. No way.

"Simmons?" he asks. "As in _FitzSimmons_?"

If he accidentally married one of SHIELD's brightest, most famous scientists, Trip is _never_ going to let him forget it. Also, he might get court-martialed for defiling a valuable asset. That feels like something SHIELD might do.

"You've heard of us?" she asks, which is as good as confirmation.

Shit.

"Hasn't everyone?" he counters, trying to play it off. As he does so, another potential complication occurs to him. "But I thought you and Fitz were…"

"Oh, no," she assures him. "Strictly platonic."

Well, that's a relief.

…Because he doesn't need one of SHIELD's main engineers to have a grudge against him, obviously. Not for any other reason. What other reason could there be?

He knows what other reason.

He finds himself hesitating over the idea of divorce. It's the obvious solution—the only _logical_ course of action—and yet.

And yet.

Something—some instinct or sixth sense or _whatever_—tells him that if he lets Jemma walk away, it will be one of the biggest mistakes he's ever made. And that's really saying something; he's made a lot of mistakes in his day.

He can't say why, but he feels like—he _knows_—he can't let this end right away. He can't pretend this never happened. He doesn't _want_ to.

He maybe plays her a little, turns up the charm and touches her deliberately, trying to fluster her, but he doesn't think he can be blamed for it. This is so clearly crazy, asking her to remain married to him—a complete stranger—for any longer than is absolutely necessary, and she's a scientist. Logic is literally her job.

So he'll take all the help he can get in convincing her to wait.

"So, doctor? What do you say?" he asks. "Let me take you to breakfast, talk a little before we make any decisions?"

She hesitates. He holds his breath. He doesn't know why this is so important, but it is. He doesn't know what he'll do if she says no.

"Very well, Grant," she says, and he's never been so relieved. "Lead the way."

It's not a guarantee. It's just breakfast.

That's all right. Everything has to start somewhere.


	3. GrantDeath: mistress of death

A/N: azariastromsis said: "For the POV switch, I'm requesting Mistress of Death from Grant's POV or Ward discovering Simmons is HYDRA from Jemma's POV. :D :D"

(chapter twenty-five of _a prompt response (is only polite)_)

* * *

Violent Death is a busy man.

(For certain values of the word _man_—he's far beyond human, but the English language has certain…constraints that mean it can't really cover his actual state of Being.)

People are dying every minute of the day, and even though he's not responsible for all of them—even though his brethren Death of Illness and Death of Old Age bear some of the burden—well, when it comes to the human race, _some_ is still a lot.

Beyond the basic random acts of violence—murders and muggings and car jackings and vengeful spells—that violently end lives on a regular basis, there are currently twelve major wars happening in various places across the globe. He doesn't need to be present at _every_ violent death (and thank the ages for that; he'd never get anything else done), but each one creates more work for him.

So, again. He's a busy man.

Today, the Mage War that has been raging in the southern hemisphere for the last three years peaked again. Mages are dramatic, given to fighting en masse on battlefields, like the soldiers of old, and their latest encounter has left him with quite a mess to clean up.

He's been wandering the battlefield seeing to souls for nearly three hours when, abruptly, he is no longer alone. One of his Assistants—or Angels, as they prefer to be called (the Angels of Death, properly, and he's always thought it an odd choice, but as long as they do their jobs well—and, to their credit, they do—he doesn't care what they call themselves)—appears behind him in a sudden rush of wind.

"Death."

"Raina," he says, straightening from where he has been crouching next to a mage who died a particularly painful death. "What is it?"

Raina is assigned to the northern hemisphere, and in any case bears a strong grudge against mages, dating back several centuries. She wouldn't willingly visit this place—teeming with mage souls—unless she had a very, very good reason for it.

"The spells guarding the Lady have activated," she says, and watches him as he stills. "Would you like us to see to her?"

He takes a moment to calm himself, to put his rage aside. The Lady, as his Assistants/Angels persist in calling her (in response to her own distaste for the term Mistress, and he's given up on explaining that he is _not_ the one who comes up with these titles), is Jemma—the woman (_actual_ woman, actual fragile, human woman) that he loves.

If the spells around her have activated, it means she's in danger. Again.

Before he met Jemma—before he saw her, on a battlefield much like this one, and was instantly captivated—it had been millennia since last he struggled to control his emotions. Now, it happens on a fairly regular basis. It's inconvenient.

Once he's calm, he reaches out to check the little thread that connects them—the little bit of his Power that has kept her alive and ageless with him for decades—and determines that she is concerned, but not terribly frightened. She's unharmed, then.

His Assistants/Angels could have her safely home and her captors punished mercilessly in moments. They've done it before—this is far from the first time Jemma has been kidnapped, and unless she agrees to marry him tomorrow (unfortunately unlikely), it probably won't be the last—and they do the job admirably.

Still. He itches with the need to _personally_ teach her captors a lesson. Violence is more than a part of him, it's his reason for _existing_, and every inch of his Being urges him to use it now.

Raina is still watching him, with a gaze that more than one lesser being has called _eerie_.

"No," he says finally. "I'll take care of this myself."

There are already several of his Assistants/Angels walking the battlefield, seeing to the souls of the dead, and he summons more of them with a single Thought. The dead will keep, of course, but Jemma does get so upset when he neglects his work on her behalf.

He reaches out with his Power again, determines Jemma's location, and prepares to go to her. Then he pauses.

"Raina," he says, and she straightens. "I will see to Jemma and her captors. _You_ will look into how they found her and determine whether there were any third parties involved."

"And if there were?" she asks.

"Deal with them," he orders flatly.

She smiles. "With pleasure."

Assured that the situation is in good hands—Raina isn't the most ruthless of his Assistants/Angels, but she _is_ the most cunning—he reaches for his Power once more. It's only a second's Thought to move from the battlefield to a point not far from Jemma's location, and he smiles to himself when he senses the souls within the building.

One is Jemma, and soon she will be safe once more. The rest will soon experience Violent Death in a manner that very few, over the ages, ever have.

It's unfortunate (for them) that they won't have the chance to recognize the honor.


	4. Jemma: five times they have sex (and)

A/N: anonymous said: "5 times they have sex (and one time they don't)"

(chapter nine of _a prompt response (is only polite)_)

* * *

Jemma is no stranger to casual sex.

She's had her fair share of romantic entanglements, of course—of walks in the parks and date nights and surprise trips to science museums—but the fact of the matter is, when it comes to her particular lifestyle, casual relationships are simply more convenient.

A so-called _friend-with-benefits _carries less complication: none of the inevitable jealousy over her relationship with Fitz, no hurt feelings when she cancels plans in favor of monitoring an experiment, no mess about anniversaries and meeting families and remembering to make _gestures_ around her very busy schedule. She has hopes of romance someday, of a husband and children and the proverbial picket fence, but for the moment, casual sex is much more practical—and Jemma is nothing if not practical.

So, she has plenty of experience with casual sex. She's used to the balance of it, to seeing nothing beyond friendship in the everyday behavior of a man who has touched her in ways that are distinctly more than friendly. She's never had any trouble keeping the lines straight, and she doesn't anticipate having any trouble doing so with Ward.

And for the most part, she doesn't.

However…

She doesn't think it's her imagination that he's different with her, after. Not right away—not at first—but, gradually, she realizes that he treats her differently than he does the rest of the team. He's…softer with her, less closed off. He still gets into his little moods, times when he's snappish and unapproachable for no apparent reason, but even when he's a complete prat to Fitz and Skye, his voice gentles as he speaks to Jemma.

He doesn't shy from her touch the way he does everyone else's, and while _that_ might be down to their sexual encounters, she's surprised to realize, in retrospect, that he never really has. Even on their second day as a team, when she dragged him into the lab to examine the bullet graze he received in Peru (several hours _after_ he received it, after the Bus was hijacked and they all nearly died and Skye tattled on him as soon as they landed at the Slingshot), all he did was roll his eyes as she shoved his shirt up to check his side.

He tenses when Fitz slaps his back, stays carefully out of Skye's range, and exudes very blatant _keep away_ signals in Coulson and May's directions, but for her? He sighs and acts like it's a chore to tolerate her concern, but he never shoves her away.

After the first time—after he saves her life when she throws herself from the Bus—he teases her. He mimics her impersonation of him, laughs when she corrects it, and doesn't disappear the moment she's distracted by Skye. In London, she's on edge digging through the rubble, and he doesn't make her feel foolish for it. In Norway, she hesitates to go up the tree, and he offers comfort and encouragement.

He's kinder with her—almost sweet. She tries not to make anything of it, but…it's very noticeable.

She doesn't have any trouble keeping things separate. She and Ward are friends (if that) who occasionally sleep together, and that's all. Still, sometimes, when he smiles at her or sits next to her at meals or seeks her out for nothing more than conversation…

Sometimes, she looks at him and she thinks _maybe_.


	5. Jemma: one night stand causes pregnancy

A/N: sapphireglyphs said: "Okay, may I please get a continuation or a POV shift for the one where Jemma tells Grant she is pregnant after their one night stand please? :D"

(chapter six of _a prompt response (is only polite)_)

* * *

Jemma has thought about having children, of course.

She likes children, and she likes to think she'd make a good mother. Children have always been on her agenda. However, it's always been a distant sort of want—a someday, so to speak. _Someday_ she'll find a man, fall in love, get married, and get pregnant. _Someday_ she'll be a mother. _Someday_ she'll have children.

Someday comes much sooner than she anticipates.

She doesn't want to believe it, at first. She recognizes the symptoms, of course, and the timing is right, but—she doesn't want to believe it, because she doesn't want it to be true. But she takes the home tests and they're positive, and she goes to the doctor and the result is confirmed, and the next thing she knows she's past the first trimester and it's no longer _someday_, it's _today_.

Which means it's probably about time to inform the father.

Jemma has been best friends with Skye for ten years, and she's had a crush on Skye's brother Grant for just as long. She knew that the decision to sleep with him was a bad one as soon as she made it—mostly because he made it clear that it would be a one-time thing, meaning she was essentially ruining her chances—but how could she resist? He's just so…so _Grant_. It was obviously the only chance she was ever going to get (ten years! It took _ten years_ to reach the point of a one-night stand), and so she took it.

She sincerely regrets it now.

Still, they're going to be parents. Or, she's going to be a parent. She's going to be a mother, and if he so desires, he can be a father. If not, she'll do this alone. She's perfectly capable of it, she's sure. She earned two PhDs before she was seventeen; raising a child can't be _that _much more difficult, can it?

(She's not fooling anyone, including herself, with that one. A child is a life-long commitment, which will require a significant portion of her time, attention, and effort. Not to mention love. But she's resolved; she wasn't expecting to have a child so soon, but now that she's getting one, she doesn't intend to give it up. She can do this.)

Informing him is really more of a courtesy than anything. If he wants to be involved, good. If not, also good. Probably better, in fact, because somehow she doesn't expect that he'll want her any more as the mother of his child than he does as Skye's best friend, and spending the next eighteen years or so having her face shoved in the fact that the object of her affection feels nothing for her won't be fun.

She sighs and forces those thoughts away. It's ridiculous, the way even the _thought_ of Grant can turn her into a foolish schoolgirl, the likes of which she never really was.

She's going to be a _mother_. It's probably time to grow up.

Still, she can't bring herself to contact him directly. Instead, she passes the word through Skye that she'd like to meet him for lunch. It's only sensible, isn't' it?

This really is the sort of news better given in person.


	6. Jemma: yes men (sometimes)

A/N: darkangelcryo said: "Sometimes chapter 15 Jemma and May"

(chapter fifteen of _sometimes (i find it hard to believe)_)

* * *

Jemma and Skye are in the middle of another debate about the exact definition of _rest_ when Coulson appears in the doorway.

"Would you _please_ just _stay there_? You need sleep, not to go gallivanting about—oh, sir, I didn't see you there! Would you be so kind as to tell Skye to stay put? Appeals to her common sense aren't working, so perhaps a direct order—"

"AC, tell her I'm fine! I survived two bullets, I think taking a _walk_ will be o—"

"Barely!" Jemma interrupts, frustrated. "_Barely_ survived two bullets, and that was only thanks to a drug about which we know _nothing_, so really—"

"Simmons," Coulson says quietly.

She turns to look at him properly, and the look on his face knocks the breath right out of her lungs. She's seen that expression only once before, when he told her he was sorry and hit the button to quarantine the lab.

It's not a happy look.

She swallows. "Sir?"

"Lorelei got Ward," he says plainly.

Jemma feels, as though from several miles away, Skye take her hand and tangle their fingers. It helps (a bit) with the sudden wave of emotions that have overtaken her. She takes a moment to breathe through her panic—she's a scientist; it's important to keep a clear head—and then forces herself to focus.

"When you say _got_," she says, and falters. Skye squeezes her hand.

"She brainwashed him," Coulson clarifies.

It's better than _killed_—much, much better, although of course if Grant had been killed she wouldn't need Coulson to tell her—or injured, but it still makes her chest tight.

She wonders, distantly, if the word _Asgardian_ haunts him, the way _Chitauri_ haunts her. They haven't spoken about it, not in those terms. They haven't spoken about it much at all, not since the days immediately following his exposure to the berserker staff.

(She remembers the morning after, lying in bed in that hotel room in Belfast, when he admitted that though the strength was gone, the rage wasn't, and quietly confessed his terror at the prospect of losing control.

And she remembers the awful, painful way he laughed, as though the sound was being scraped out of him, when she said she understood.

"You really don't," he told her, and his voice was so raw, it was impossible to be offended. "Jemma, you have no idea what I'm actually capable of."

She thought of the hijacking in Peru and of Fitz's account of the events in South Ossetia, and asked, "Don't I?"

"No," he said. "You don't." His arms tightened around her and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and his voice, when he spoke again, was low and almost broken. "And I really, really hope you never do.")

"Simmons," Coulson says sharply, and it pulls her out of the memory.

It does not, however, make her forget that losing control is one of the things Grant fears most, and she has to swallow twice before she can speak.

"What can we do?" she asks. "What—How do we get him back?"

"Lady Sif says that putting the collar on Lorelei will break the spell," he replies, then crosses his arms. "But there's a problem. The collar was damaged in the…scuffle. Fitz is looking at fixing it."

There are countless unknown variables involved in that collar. Asgardian science is so advanced as to be essentially indistinguishable from _magic_ to their eyes, for goodness' sake. The chances of Fitz being able to fix it before anything horrible happens to Grant—before he's made to _do_ anything horrible—are…miniscule, at best.

But Fitz is a genius—the smartest person she knows. She's seen him accomplish amazing things. If anyone can fix that collar, he can.

So all she says is, "Good. That's…good."

"So, wait," Skye says, and squeezes Jemma's hand again. "Is Ward some kind of…pod person now?"

"No," Coulson shakes his head. "According to Lady Sif, the men Lorelei controls don't forget who they are or what they know, she just…becomes the embodiment of all their desires."

That sparks a new fear—one she hadn't even considered—one she can't even _name_, because it's simply to awful to contemplate. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. Worrying accomplishes nothing. She can't help Grant if she makes herself ill with it.

"Jemma," Coulson says gently, and she opens her eyes. "We can't put the collar on Lorelei if we can't find her. So. What do you think Ward will do?"

"Grant," she says, and her voice breaks on his name. She clears her throat as Skye and Coulson kindly pretend not to notice. "Grant has identities, currency—properties all over the world. If he still knows us, then he knows we'll be after him. He'll disappear with her. We'll never find them."

"We'll see about that," Coulson says, and looks at Skye. "Ward's going to be doing anything he can to keep Lorelei off the radar. You're the best radar we have. Find them."

Skye nods and turns her attention to her laptop, letting go of Jemma's hand in order to type. It makes her feel oddly bereft. Coulson is apparently finished with the conversation; he leaves the pod, and Jemma follows him without thinking.

"And me, sir?" she asks quietly.

He stops and sighs, then turns to face her.

"There's not much you can do right now," he says, almost apologetically. "Keep an eye on Skye; make sure she doesn't over-exert herself. Help Fitz, if he needs it." He takes a step closer. "When we get Ward back, he's going to need you. So…" He shrugs. "Get ready for that. Because it won't be easy."

"No," she agrees, around the lump in her throat. "I don't imagine it will."

He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it firmly. "We _are_ going to get him back, Simmons. I promise."

"Yes, sir," she says.

He nods once and walks away. She stands there in the corridor and watches him go. She takes a moment to breathe through the panic and anger and fear clogging her lungs and realizes, as she does so, that she's been rubbing her wrist—her _timer_—absently. She doesn't know for how long.

She pulls her hand away from her wrist like she's been burned, then hugs herself, trying to ignore the awful pit in her stomach.

Grant will be fine. He _will_. Whatever happens—whatever Lorelei does to him—he'll be fine. She'll make sure of it. They'll get him back and she'll take care of him.

In the meantime…she has more questions about this brainwashing nonsense, and she knows exactly to whom she should address them. Someone who, like herself, is most likely feeling entirely useless at the moment.

It's time she spoke to Lady Sif.


	7. Grant: sex pollen

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "Sex pollen, DVD prompt B (Send me the name of any fanfic I've written and I'll give you a drabble from the other half of the pair's point of view. (If it's a split POV, you should specify the section you want.))"

The **sex pollen drabble **can be found in chapter **73** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_.

* * *

Grant is finding it difficult to focus on his book.

He can hear Fitz snoring in his bunk, but that's not it. There's soft music coming from Skye's bunk, but that's not it. And it's unusually warm in the cabin—he's actually sweating—but that's not it either.

The problem is entirely mental. His mind just refuses to focus on the words in front of him. Instead, it repeatedly wanders downstairs, to Simmons—who must be in the lab, since she's not up here.

He's not thinking about anything in particular. His mind jumps from this morning—the two hours they spent alone at the scene while the rest of the team was occupied elsewhere—to this afternoon—her hands on his skin as she took out his stitches, touch just as gentle as it was when she put them in last week—to a few hours ago—the brief, childish water fight she and Skye got into while washing the dishes.

His thoughts linger there, on the laughter on her face and the water dripping down her neck, beneath her shirt, then backtrack to this afternoon, imagining how it might have gone if she weren't wearing gloves—what it might be like to have her hands on him without medical excuse.

Well, there's an easy way to find out.

He makes it all the way to the cargo bay before common sense reasserts itself, and he realizes there's something wrong with this.

He's used to wanting Simmons. He's been wanting her for months, since the very first days of the team. But it's never been like _this_ before—this unending, distracting drive, the _need_ to do something, to walk right into the lab and have her against one of those oh-so-convenient tables.

He wants her so badly he can almost feel her skin underneath his hands already, and that's not right.

He's very much in a look-not-touch position with Simmons. For one thing, though she usually takes a second glance or two when he's shirtless in front of her, she's never shown any sign of actually being _interested_ in him.

He could work around that—he's got plenty of training and practice in seduction, and working from a basis of friendship and trust and physical attraction means it would probably only take about twenty minutes to have her moving from _admiration_ to _desire_—but there's one other, very important factor that he can't believe he's forgotten.

Namely, May, and the fact that he's sleeping with her.

They're completely casual, no strings attached, no emotions involved bed partners. Fuck buddies, to put it crudely. But just because there's no emotion in the equation doesn't mean she'd be happy if he slept with someone else.

May is dangerous, the one person on the team he's not one hundred percent sure he could take down if the situation called for it, and the fact that he _completely forgot_ about her for even a second suggests that there's something more than just lust affecting him right now.

He should go upstairs. He should wake Coulson and say he's been affected by something and that it's focused on Simmons. He needs to report in and isolate himself before he loses control. His grip is already slipping.

But he can't bring himself to leave the cargo bay. He's so close to Simmons—he can see her through the lab's windows, doing something with the samples she (so cheerfully) collected today—and he can't bear the thought of getting any farther away from her than he already is.

He can't leave. But he can't get any closer or there's no fucking way he'll be able to keep from touching her.

So, as is his habit, he turns to violence to distract himself.

He doesn't have hand wraps, but he can't go upstairs to get them, so he'll just have to go without. In the meantime, the heat he was feeling upstairs is even worse down here—and it must be an effect of whatever influence he's under; it's like lust turned up to twenty, burning through his system like a virus—and it's starting to get to him.

He strips his shirt off, which helps a little, and then sets to distracting himself with the punching bag.

He has…minimal success.

Every hit aimed at the bag is automatic, pure habit and reflex; all of his _attention_ is focused on thoughts of Simmons' lips—spread in one of her bright smiles and the way she purses them at him when he tears his stitches and wrapped around her straw at dinner—and her hands—steady and sure and gentle—and her curves—pressed against him when he snatched her out of the sky and saved her from certain death—that go in endless circles.

Then his mind wanders in filthier directions, away from what he's _seen_ to what he could _do_, imagining what she'd look like spread across his bunk, naked and breathless beneath him, and all the ways he could get her there, and he has to increase the rhythm and force of his hits until he aches from it—until it _stings_—because it's so tempting and he can barely _breathe_ from how much he wants her.

He's breathless and sweating—from the overwhelming heat and exertion both—when the realization of what the itch between his shoulder blades means filters through his awareness. He stops mid-jab in favor of catching the bag, stilling its swinging, and takes a moment to center himself. Then he glances over his shoulder, and his eyes meet Simmons'.

She's facing him, her work abandoned, and at some point in the last—however long he's been down here, and it's not a good sign that he's lost track—she removed her lab coat and her sweater. As he watches, she sways a little and places a hand against the table next to her for balance, and he'd be concerned if he couldn't read what's in her eyes so clearly.

Hunger.

She's feeling the same thing he is.

Knowing that—realizing that she's been standing there, watching him, burning with desperate lust—is pretty much the last straw. He's through the doors and in the lab, standing in front of her, before he can second-guess himself.

"Simmons," he says, and then stops. He's teetering right on the edge of control, and the heat is still building and he has to curl his hands into fists to keep from touching her.

She's just—fucking gorgeous. Staring up at him, pupils blown wide with desire, ponytail loose and messy the way it gets when she's been tugging at it while lost in thought, sleeves rolled up to her elbows…

Her wrists are small and delicate. He could hold them in one hand. He _wants_ to—wants to hold her still, hear her beg, hear her _scream_—

"Ward," she says. Then she bites her lip, and once again he's moving before he even means to.

He manages to stop himself before he actually touches her, but it's a close thing. He wants her to do that again. He wants to _know_—whether she's a screamer, whether she'll gasp, whether she'll bite down on her lip _just like that_ to keep in whatever sounds want to escape her.

He wants to know what her fucking sinful mouth looks like when it's bruised and swollen from kissing, when it's wrapped around—

She sways towards him, just a little, and he's lost. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her, and she's soft against his hands and heat against his lips and that's it, he stops caring about May and consequences and whatever it is that's affecting him—

He stops caring about anything except _this_, about finally having her after _months_ of wanting—

He's wanted and wanted and wanted, and finally—with her eager and desperate approval—he takes.


End file.
